


This fatal attraction is going to eat me alive

by Anonymous



Series: 12 Days of Trashmas [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky is as willing a participant as a brainwashed kidnapee can be, Creepy Brock Rumlow, HYDRA Trash Party, He doesn't get one, It's like an advent calendar only awful, M/M, Object Insertion, Pre-TWS, Twelve Days of Trashmas, also Bucky's ass, dub-con, violation of a Christmas tree
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-15
Updated: 2016-12-15
Packaged: 2018-09-08 16:51:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8852758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: On the first day of Christmas, Pierce gave to me; the Asset and a tiny tree.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Dear trash nonnie on the kink meme who requested the Asset getting a tiny tree shoved up his butt; you have created a monster. This should probably be called the 12 days of nonsense.

**/*/**

When Brock pulls into the lot in downtown DC, a grim expression on his face and the brakes squealing as he makes a hard left into an empty parking space, he's thinking about the fact he hasn't had any coffee in over twenty-four hours, that he hasn't slept in more than twice that long, and is fondly recalling the recoil from the gun that emptied four bullets into his target's skull only twelve hours ago. It's no wonder when he stalks through the busy halls of HYDRA’s warren, beneath the bank that lends a facade of civility, that the lab techs and administrative assistants scurry out of his way - like so many flies disturbed by a passing predator, he thinks, a sneer curling his upper lip.

Fifty-six hours, that's how long Brock has been in the field, 2 days 7 hours and 49 minutes to be exact.

Two and a half days of no sleep, he bemoans, snarling angrily at someone's poor secretary when she doesn't quite move out of his way fast enough; ignores her squeak of surprise as the hot coffee she's clutching in a trembling hand sloshes down her white blouse.

He storms into the Secretary of Defence’s office without knocking, pays little attention to the fact Pierce is not alone in the room, some reedy senator or other with a weak chest and a rather ratty looking face is sat in the leather-backed chair opposite Pierce's own, twisting his hands nervously as Brock slams the manilla file down on the desk between them.

To his credit, Pierce barely raises an eyebrow at the display. He is long conditioned to the ebbs and flows of Brock Rumlow temper. Fifteen years will do that.

“All went well I presume, Commander?”

Brock has to reign himself in, slip a noose around the retort that wants to steal angrily between his lips, instead schools his expression into one of polite indifference that could rival Pierce's own. They're two sharks in the water, circling each other - each sizing the other up, and there's the urge to laugh that's here then gone when Brock notices sweat beading on the feeble Senator’s upper lip.

“Down to the last letter, Secretary.”

Pierce passes his eyes over the file briefly, the manilla cover marred only by a string of handwritten numbers scrawled haphazardly in blue ink, before sweeping it off the desk and into one of the drawers beneath. He hesitates before he closes the drawer again though, and Brock's curiosity is peaked.

Pierce is rarely indecisive.

He doesn't linger long for what it's worth, and, decision apparently made, he reaches in and pulls out a brown paper bag - neatly folded over at the top and sealed closed with some kind of cheerfully printed label in greens and reds. A Christmas present, Brock wonders? How… Quaint. And out of character.

He only has the vaguest sense of it being almost Christmas; inasmuch as it is hard to ignore the changing weather, but holiday cheer is not rife in the air - not in this building at least.

Pierce holds out the wrapped package in his direction, and Brock eyes it warily before taking it; it's a metal thing and curiously shaped - not a weapon though, it's far too light for that, just an odd type of cone - rather like an old fashioned horn. He tilts his head in a silent question.

Pierce folds his hands, elbows resting on polished mahogany, and peers up at Brock over the reading spectacles he would swear blind the Secretary doesn't actually need.

“A gift, for our guest. Perhaps you would be so kind as to present it to him before you leave?”

Ah. That's his reward then.

**/*/**

The Asset isn't aware that it's almost Christmas either - isn't aware of much at all.

It's been pulled from cryo for some reason or another that nobody has bothered to mention yet, and it's not sure how many days it's been sat in this dark little room. It thinks perhaps four, measuring time by the twelve bottles of water and meal replacement bars it's been allowed to consume. Though, why would they keep it updated anyway? It's not like it needs to know what day of the week it is.

So it sits and waits for orders, like a weapon left on the rack in the arms room - tucked away until it is next needed. A gun doesn't need a status report from its handlers whenever they're out of its sight for longer than a few days, and so neither does the Asset. It's only job is to be ready for when it is is called upon, when it is needed. The Asset does like to be useful.

It looks up in surprise when it hears booted feet in the corridor that leads to its humble abode, for outside of missions it's not often visited by anyone other than the lab techs in their shiny leather loafers, or the doctors in their white safety shoes - the ones that look horrible when speckled with red. It wonders if perhaps a handler has been sent to retrieve it for a mission briefing, and feels adrenaline prickle beneath its skin. It would be nice, to run and stretch its legs.

It doesn't move from the corner where it is crouched, though it knows the Handler is aware it will have heard them approaching. But it is not supposed to get too close to the bars, is supposed to say where it rests like any other weapon left in storage. That doesn't stop it baring its teeth in a frankly brutal approximation of a smile though, when it sees its favourite handler materialise on the other side of the reinforced bars.

The one that pets it hair after a completed mission, tells it that it's done a good job, and sometimes, even allows it to sleep in his bed rather than on the floor like any other dog.

The Handler is holding something in his hand, it vaguely looks like a miniaturised version of one of the trees from their last training exercise, that is, if the trees in Gdansk were pink and glittery and had tiny stars on top. The Asset wonders if the tiny tree is for him. He did like laying in them, body spread the length of their branches, rifle heavy in his hand; the smell of the green needles mixing with that of the gun mental and becoming achingly familiar.

It doesn't get given things though, at least, it never has in the past. Perhaps the tiny tree is a prop for a training exercise?

The Handler unlocks the door to his little room, ten by five it's small and cozy with his blanket in the corner, and sets down the little tree before re-locking the door behind him. The Asset watches with interest as the Handler crouches in front of where he's crouched on his pallet, blanket draped around his shoulders, the heavy leather of his steel capped work boots creaking a little as he bends. Or perhaps it's the Handlers knees making that noise. The Asset wonders if he's malfunctioning.

“Brought you something, kid.”

The Handler’s voice is rough, and his smile is sharp, but that doesn't stop the curiosity that flares in the Assets gut at its superiors words. For him? He eyes the tree carefully, though he makes no move to lean forwards and pluck it from where it rests; set upright on the expanse of concrete between the Asset and its Handler, a space probably only a few feet wide that feels like a million miles. Assets don't get given _things_.

“For .. Me?”

The Asset almost doesn't recognise its own voice at first, it's scratchy with disuse, and it realised then that it hasn't spoken at all since coming out of cryo. Whether that was two days ago, a year ago, it's long enough that it's vocal chords have not yet become limber from where they clad in in tiny crystals. It wonders sometimes, if it ever really does thaw all the way; if it were to scrape away the top layer of skin their would not just be a layer of half melted slush underneath like a snowman on the cusp of Spring.

“I have orders to present it to you, Soldier.”

The Handler’s voice is not kind this time, though the Asset cannot remember the last time it was. It's all sort of hazy and blurred together; soft touches and warm words to melt the frost, followed by long periods of quiet stillness that says winter has settled over the landscape of his mind. As the Asset watches it's Handler reach out a careful hand and stroke over the smooth curves of the little tree, metal wrought in smooth tongues before it was ionised pink, it thinks this feels a little like a coming blizzard.

“Strip.”

The Handler is looking at the Asset with fierce eyes, and of course it obeys. Let's the blanket fall from its shoulders before it sets to work untying the strings of the exercise pants it was provided with, sometime between the de-thawing and being guided to its little room, kicks them off and drops them at its Handler's feet, before leaning forwards to tug the worn shirt from over its head.

It's doesn't hide its body once it is undressed - there is no room in the world for a shy weapon, after all. That doesn't stop it ducking its head a little though, from letting the curtain of dark hair fall forward over its eyes so it doesn't have to look it's Handler in the eye.

The Handler doesn't seem to care about that anyway.

“Turn.”

The Asset moves awkwardly on its knees, turning to face the wall of its little room and leaning to rest its forehead against the rough hewn concrete. It's like a treasure it thinks sometimes, hidden away in a bank vault beneath the earth, protected, _secret_.

It doesn't shudder when it feels its Handler slide one gloved hand down the smooth curve of its spine, his gloved fingers a little rough against its skin. It resists the urge to arch its back like a cat, to press back into the touch like some needy, desperate thing; though it feels a whine building low in its chest as it fights the urge to do exactly that. It would much prefer that the Handler removed the glove though, that it could feel the drag of his finger tips against its skin, but that thought is short lived - weapons are not allowed to think things like that. Besides, one should always wear gloves when handling weapons - it is standard protocol.

It cannot help the way it's skin aches for contact though, the way it sighs from the depths of its chest, and tension leaks from the corded muscles of its shoulders as that gloved hand slowly repeats its journey up and down its spine.

The sensation, the touch, washes over it a little like an avalanche it thinks. It wonders if it is always this good.

**/*/**

Brock could have laughed when he'd unwrapped the paper bag, as though Pierce had been shopping at some kind of artisanal Christmas market, and found the little Christmas tree inside. Smooth whorls of metal ionised pink, with a tiny gold star on top.

He doesn't laugh though - for this is not intended to be a laughing matter.

No, instead he has the soldier on its knees, burying its face against forearms corded with muscle as it leans on the wall of its cell for support. As though it needs that. As though it couldn't turn every bone in his body to dust should the urge take its fancy.

It's like a zoo tiger, or some other large exotic pet - tamed through violence, through the threat of repercussions, but not domesticated. Not by a long shot.

Brock feels around in the pocket of his tac pants for the gun oil that's never far from his person, eyes the little bottle considering before turning his attention to the little tree resting next to where he's crouched. It will do.

His lip curls a little in not-quite-a-smile as he tugs the gloves from his fingers, drops them on top of the little pile of the Soldier’s clothes, and relishes in the gasp and the little shudder that it cannot seem to help when he brushes that now bare hand over its flank.

He wonders if anyone has touched it at all in the five days it's been off ice, if anyone other than the techs who put it under a year ago have so much as brushed the hair from its forehead since it was last in Brock's bed. He doubts it, not many people would be willing to stick their cock in the barrel of a loaded gun.

That's not what it is about today though, no.

Brock doesn't undress himself, doesn't pull his aching cock from where it's trapped in the constricting fabric of his tac pants. Just dips a single finger in the little bottle of gun oil and reaches out to trace the rim of the Soldier’s greedy little hole. Watches as its legs tremble, as a shudder works its way down its spine at the unexpected attention. He's not gentle when he forces that single digit inside.

The Soldier takes it though, arches towards him as though desperate to be touched, willing to take whatever he'll offer it. He watches a bead sweat roll down the curve of its spine, the way muscle ripples beneath its skin, hair tossed forwards to cover its face even as it presses against the rough hewn concrete of the wall.

He adds two more fingers at the same time and the Asset _screams_.

Brock’s a little gentler after that, allows it to adjust to the stretch before he eases in and out slowly, watches the way his fingers disappear then reappear from between the globes of the Soldier’s ass. The way it's metal fingers are looped tightly around its human wrist, it's hand turning white with the pressure. He cannot see its face but he imagines that its eyes are closed, that its chewing on its lower lip, a bad habit that he's tried and failed to break in the past, each new round of electricity wiping the conditioning clean, like a blank slate.

He waits until the pressure has eased up a little, until the Asset relaxes again and stops tensing every time he moves so much as a centimetre. It'll need to be limber for what's coming next, he thinks, eyeing the little tree where it's sat beside him patiently, waiting its turn.

Soon he deems the Soldier relaxed enough for what's coming next, keeps pumping his fingers slowly in and out even as he uses his free hand to dribble the gun oil over his new toy.

The Asset let's out a soft whine of protest when he allows his fingers to slip free, but it's short lived - Brock eases the tip of the little tree inside the Asset, watches as the muscle of its rim flutters around the smooth curves of the little star, as the first few inches disappear inside its waiting hole. It gasps around, its legs trembling where it's kneeling, as though it just might shake itself apart. He pauses for a moment to allow it to adjust, not because he's suddenly developed a conscience, but because it would be a shame if his fun were to end prematurely if it were to require immediate medical attention.

He doesn't wait long before he's easing it in a little further though, twisting it a little as he goes - both to ease the way, and because it makes the Soldier whine deep in its throat; high and needy and pained all at the same time. It's delightful.

He gets it over halfway in before he begins to thrust with it - drawing it almost all the way out before sliding it back inside slowly, watching the small ‘pop’ each time the star eases past the rim. The Soldier is a mess of sweaty limbs and dark hair and babbled words, and this, this is what Brock truly gets off on, his cock laying hot and heavy against his thigh, on the sheer depravity. Of taking a weapon like this, a magnificent powerful weapon, and tearing it apart - making it his own.

When the Asset comes it's against the wall with a gasp, the white standing out where it's streaked against the grey concrete. Brock thinks it might be crying, he cannot see its face but the hitching breaths and shaking sides are enough to give it away.

He doesn't pause long to allow it to recover before he's tugging the Christmas tree free, ignores the yelp and the way it flinches when he does. There's been no lasting damage done today, it doesn't need coddling.

He looks at the little tree, gleaming and slick with the gun oil, and chuckles to himself before setting it down beside the Soldier's bed. Bring a little festive cheer to the dingy cell, he thinks, wrinkling his nose a little at the thought of a five by ten cell ever being described as cheerful.

Brock ignores the apparently boneless pile of weapon where it's slid sideways down the wall, facing away from him, and collapsed in a heap on its side; like a puppet with its strings cut.

Instead he swipes his gloves up from the pile of discarded clothing, stuffs the bottle of gun oil back in his pocket, and stretches and yawns when he clambers to his feet - wincing a little at the protest his knees make.

That doesn't stop him whistling as he leaves though, as he locks the cage behind him and walks away, twirling the keys around his finger like he's some prison cop in a comedy show.

He wonders if the Asset knows the tune to ‘We wish you a Merry Christmas.’

**/*/**


End file.
